


i don't think i could stand to be where you don't see me

by bubonickitten



Series: if you can't find any comfort at the end of the world, making your own from scratch is fine [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (this man has his rejection sensitive dysphoria triggered 24/7 i s2g.), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, M/M, Post-MAG 172, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24801463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubonickitten/pseuds/bubonickitten
Summary: After leaving the Web's domain, Martin and Jon both get a little lost in their own heads.Or: Time to put the apocalypse on hold again for another Web-related navel-gazing session.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: if you can't find any comfort at the end of the world, making your own from scratch is fine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793827
Comments: 33
Kudos: 157





	i don't think i could stand to be where you don't see me

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I understand that this is a horror/tragedy story, and I respect Jonny Sims' creative direction, but how dare he neglect to provide the 45-seconds-or-less of playful banter that I have come to EXPECT in a S5 episode??? I NEED DARK HUMOR AND/OR FLUFF IN THESE TRYING TIMES.
> 
> And, while I'm at it, since canon will not provide: some self-indulgent emotional catharsis. As a treat. 
> 
> This is part of a series, but can absolutely be read as a standalone. 
> 
> **CW:** canon-typical spiders & arachnophobia; substance abuse (cigarette smoking & nicotine dependence); self-loathing re: addiction and obsessive-compulsive behavior; rejection sensitive dysphoria rearing its ugly head; internalized ableism & victim blaming; brief instance of (very passive) suicidal ideation; Web-typical paranoia; **spoilers up to and including MAG 172**.

“Yeah, screw this place,” Martin says. “Never liked the theatre anyway.”

And with that, he turns and makes a beeline for the nearest exit. Jon stands there for a moment, outstretched hand still lingering where he had offered it to Martin. A familiar gloom settles over him, stealing the air from his lungs – a sharp twinge in his chest, a cold weight dropping into his gut, a hard lump in his throat – all because of the merest hint of rejection. 

_Don’t take it personally,_ he scolds himself. Martin probably just… didn’t notice his hand. He was distracted. He's unsettled, he’s frightened, he needs to be away from here. It’s fine. Jon is just being self-centered. _Again._

But as he trails Martin, several steps behind, he gets lost in his own head. 

It's concerning, this pattern of Jon getting so absorbed in statements that Martin cannot reach him - and it isn't fair to Martin, left adrift and alienated in a nightmare realm that _Jon_ brought into existence, all so Jon can take a moment to bask in the terror. Yes, Jon hates it. He hates how the fear and agony are filtered through him, even though he's become so accustomed to it - so much so that he fears eventually growing numb to it all, losing that last human spark he still curls himself around with possessive, protective fervor. Even more, though, he hates that alien thing in his head that _likes_ it, that forces _him_ to like it, that insists all of this is _right_ and _good_ and _natural_. 

It's destroying him, it's destroying everyone around him, and he wants all of it to _just stop._ Except, there's a loud part of him that _doesn't._ He wants nothing more than to choke the life out of it. 

He wishes he could go back to a time when he didn't want or need this, when he wasn't comforted by this _thing_ hollowing him out like a tunneling worm. When did things go so _wrong?_ Did it start when he was a child, when he found the book? Was the point of no return much later, when he became the Archivist? Or was he always doomed to be _this_ , born with self-destruction and impulsivity encoded into his DNA, impossible to separate from himself and still remain _himself?_

Precisely how much of the statement did Martin overhear? Was it enough to draw the parallels that Jon himself is outlining now?

Jon never has time to process a statement while he’s in the midst of recording it. The human part of him is shelved so the Archive can go about its impartial curation without the interference of Jon's feverish running commentary. Once the trance wears off, though, Jon has time to think. To _ruminate,_ as Martin says. To record his supplemental and dutifully file it away in the Archive, because the knowledge is not complete without Jon's lived experience to bring it to life. 

_FRANCIS: Please. Let me go. Just let me go._

_THE SPIDER: Oh, Francis. It’s such a shame that I couldn’t do such a thing even if I wanted to. The man in the audience saw to that. I am no more free than you are, little puppet._

Not for the first time, Jon wonders about the significance of the statements he’s been channeling since the end of the world. How does the subject – _victim,_ the still-human part of him admonishes – get selected? Does the Eye direct his focus, like choosing from a menu? Is it the choice of the Entity whose domain they're passing through? Or is it just chance – whatever instance of terror gets Beheld in that fraction of a second before the tape recorder clicks on to demand its offering?

He can’t shake the feeling that the Web _did_ have a hand in selecting the particular show he was set to narrate just now, if only because it felt so perfectly tailored and pointed.

_FRANCIS: Please. Please god, not again. I don’t want it to happen again._

_THE SPIDER: Then walk away, Francis, just turn and leave. All that is required is a little bit of willpower. You have a little bit of willpower, don’t you?_

Free will again, of course. Choice versus control. That thorny, sticky weed of a question that took up residence in his mind and spread its roots through every part of him, feeding and growing and seeding more iterations of itself with every passing moment of doubt. He's been over this, he's been over this; why can't he just _let it go?_

_“Jon, we’ve been over this," Basira told him. "The key is to_ not _force people to feed you their trauma. You know – just don’t do it?”_

_“It’s not that simple.”_

_“No, it is. Or I put you down.”_

Jon remembers how, the first time he tried to quit smoking, it was framed in exactly that way: _Just stop._ At the time, it had seemed so simple that when he found he couldn’t manage it, he felt like an abject failure. Beyond that, though, it was like having a sinkhole open beneath his feet. Long-suppressed doubts about his own will and self-control were dredged up to the surface, where they've stayed front-and-center ever since. 

He’s always had an obsessive streak, always had trouble letting go, always had difficulties with impulse control. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when _just one_ cigarette ultimately led to an on-again, off-again addiction that he struggled with right up until the end of the world. Whether it’s nicotine or insatiable curiosity, he’s always been predisposed to fixation, hasn't he? And the Beholding, well - it easily overshadowed the rest. It evolved so smoothly from routine to habit to dependence to basic sustenance, and now it’s such an intrinsic part of who he is that he doesn’t know who he would be without it.

Why didn't he see the warning signs? Or did he see them and opt to ignore them, to barrel on ahead through every red flag and concerned intervention attempt in his haste to _do,_ to _see,_ to _know,_ to _experience?_

_THE SPIDER: I want what you want, deep, deep down in the hidden bit of you you’ve tried so hard to kill. You can’t wait for the dance to conclude._

_FRANCIS: I don’t want that anymore. It’s different now._ I’m _different now. I’ve worked_ so hard.

_THE SPIDER: I don’t_ care _._

Jon doesn’t want this. He doesn’t. But he does. But he _doesn’t._

It’s complicated.

Jonathan Sims, human, feels nothing but despair and shame. The entire world has become a looping nightmare with no end in sight, and it’s his fault – all because, like a moth to a flame, he’s never known when to _just stop._ In the back of his mind burns that incessant _what-if:_ Would it have been better had he never woken up from the coma? With his death, the others would have been free to quit; he never would have fed on his victims; he never would have opened the door. How much better would the world have been without him in it? 

The Archivist, on the other hand, feels every stab of fear and pain as any human would, but along with that torment comes a perverse satisfaction in it all. Can he legitimately call himself a victim if he himself is complicit in his trauma? A steady diet of terror is what sustains him now, even as it eats away at him from the inside out. He is dependent on that which destroys him, and he hates it, and he likes it, and he needs it, and he dreads it, and he’s _tired._

Meanwhile, the Archive feels only detached fascination and a deep conviction that everything is exactly as it should be. This is the role it was born to serve. This is the world in which it was so carefully engineered to thrive. This is the whole of its definition and the whole of its being and the whole of its nature, and it will record and catalog and curate and preserve every single moment for as long as it survives. Nothing lasts forever, but the Archive spares no thought for the inevitable end of its existence. There’s so much to See _here_ , _now._

The fear consumes him. The fear feeds him. The fear just _is,_ and the Archive is here to witness and preserve every motion and every perspective and every detail.

_“When has your guilt, or your sadness, or your hand-wringing ever actually stopped you from doing what it wants?” Helen said with a wicked grin._

_“_ _I have not been taking statements.”_

_"You’ve sworn off other people’s trauma for now, because you’re caught. Because continuing would endanger you. But other than that, when has your discomfort ever actually_ stopped _you walking the path of the Beholding?”_

_"I… I don’t know.”_

Jonathan Sims can kick and scream all he wants, thrashing impotently in the corners of this shared mind. His cries will be drowned out by a cacophonous litany of horror and dread, and the Archive will pay him no heed. It has more interesting things to concern itself with than the useless self-loathing of the original owner of this vessel, still so stubbornly refusing to embrace the role for which he was so carefully groomed. 

Jon has always made everything so _difficult,_ hasn't he? Incapable of sitting still, of shutting up, of listening, of just _slowing down_ and _stopping_ for once. Always pushing, pushing, pushing, even when he knew the outcome would only hurt. Anything to keep moving, to secure that heady little rush that rewarded him whenever he happened upon something new and untapped. Voracious for anything to stave off the boredom and channel his restless energy. 

He wants to stop. He can't stop. He _did_ stop. He _tried._ He put so much distance between himself and that toxic thing to which he was beholden, and it found him again anyway. Jonah Magnus - 

It does not matter. Jon's consent was never necessary. He will submit regardless. He always has. 

_FRANCIS only has a desire, an itch in their bones that flows into them, drip by oily drip, down the glistening strands that suspend them, guide them, hold them…. They don’t_ want _to want it, but…_

_Pause for laughter._

He doesn’t want it. Except that he does.

He doesn’t _want_ to want it. But he does anyway.

It’s horrible, but it feels _right._

_“Can the Web control another avatar, one that serves another power?” Jon asked, desperate and ashamed._

_Pause for Helen’s laughter._

_“Make them do things they don’t want to, make them – feed –”_

_Pause for Helen’s laughter._

_“Oh, perhaps,” Helen said, delighted to watch him squirm. “Perhaps not. Would that make life easier for you? Are you so sure you didn’t want to?”_

_Pause for Helen’s laughter._

He _did_ want to. Jonathan Sims may not have wanted to, but the Archivist? The Archivist would have continued hunting and preying, and he would have cycled through as many rationalizations as needed to continue the routine. But the Archivist is Jon is the Archivist; there's no use in distancing himself from accountability. 

How had Jon lost himself so quickly, so _easily?_

When he woke up after the Unknowing, he was terrified. He didn’t know what he was becoming versus what he had already become, or the extent to which he was beyond the point of no return. Georgie had been right, when she told him that he needed people in his life to remind him of his humanity – and now he needed that more than ever.

But none of them had wasted any time in labeling him a monster.

Jon doesn’t blame them, of course. Tim was dead, Daisy was gone, Martin was Lonely, Melanie was being consumed by the Slaughter, and Basira had been left to pick up the pieces by herself. Everyone had changed; everyone had been through trauma; everyone was coping alone; everyone was afraid and angry in the face of being trapped and manipulated and exploited.

And so, so much of it was Jon’s fault, all because he couldn't _just stop._

_“Jon, focus,” Basira said. “Are you getting any sense of anything? Can you See anything?”_

_“No, I’m just seeing what you’re seeing. Still a bit weak from my trip up north, to be honest.”_

_“Sorry we couldn’t stop for a_ snack _,” Melanie snapped._

Basira had laughed, then, and Jon had _wanted_ to be angry, but all he felt was icy guilt wrapped in a layer of dull hunger.

Basira valued practicality. She simply didn't have the luxury for anything else. Jon was dangerous, and maybe a day would come when he could no longer be suffered to live, but until then, he could also be an asset. Basira asked him to Know and See when it would help their goals; she prompted him to Ask questions when they needed to interrogate someone; she wanted him at full power whenever they were heading into danger. She, like Tim, thought they would all be better off if Jon acted more like Gertrude – until he did, and they both saw the all-too-human monstrosity inherent in Gertrude’s flavor of utilitarianism.

_“She got the job done,” Jon said, “and she didn’t care about the cost.”_

_“But I thought you did.”_

_He did, didn't he? When had that changed?_

_“I had to know, Basira.”_

_It's a poor excuse._

_“It wasn’t right.”_

_No, it wasn't._

_“You could have stopped me. But you wanted to know as well, didn’t you?”_

She _did_ want to know. Most people did. And that was what he was _for,_ now, wasn’t it? The others could reap whatever benefits Jon could manage to wrest from his new inhuman existence, and all the while they could remain insulated, assured of their own moral high ground and their own humanity when compared to him.

Except that's a cop-out, isn't it? He would have hunted for statements regardless of whether it had any strategic benefit, taken over by instinct and hunger and _need_. No one is responsible for his actions except for himself. 

Jon couldn't blame the others for how they treated him back then. But sometimes, a distant part of his mind would rail against the unfairness of it all, the double standards, the unclear and inconsistent demands. He was expected to be the Archivist - to sacrifice his humanity - whenever it was convenient, and then shamed back into submission the moment that power was no longer of immediate use. Too human and he wasn’t useful enough; too monstrous and he was an unacceptable risk. He was carving off pieces of himself to fit a mold that changed by the hour, until eventually he couldn’t recognize himself anymore.

And always there was that wrenching pang somewhere deep inside him whenever he failed to meet those expectations. It had been there since he was a child, and it had only gotten worse in recent years. He couldn’t justify his continued existence if he couldn’t prove himself useful, and now, being useful meant... well, drowning. 

Excuses, excuses. He could have _just stopped._ He had choices, and at every watershed moment he chose to continue digging. If he had hit rock bottom, would he have stopped? Would he have even noticed? 

_“You knew, didn’t you? You knew the sorts of things she did, and you let her.”_

_“No,” Basira said. “Not exactly. I thought… it’s not that simple.”_

_"It never is. But that doesn’t make it okay.”_

_“None of us are who we were, Jon.”_

It was cruel of him to put her on the spot like that, he knows. Basira had a much deeper bond with Daisy; of course she would be more willing to see and acknowledge the complexities of Daisy’s struggle. It’s… normal, to see the people you love in a rosier light than the people you distrust. Likewise, Martin still holds a grudge against Daisy for how she treated him in her interrogation, for what she did to Jon. Sometimes Martin's fingers will brush against the scar on Jon's throat and just for a moment, Jon will see a quiet, protective fury in Martin's eyes. He cannot understand how almost overnight, Jon came to see Daisy as a friend. Martin wonders sometimes whether it was just another clever way Jon had found to hurt himself, to punish himself, to put himself in danger.

But Martin didn’t get to spend much time with Daisy after the Buried. He didn’t get to see how hard she was trying to get better. Just like Basira didn't get to witness Jon’s efforts.

In fact, come to think of it… back then, Jon and Daisy both hid their weakest moments from everyone except each other, didn’t they? _God,_ he misses her. No one else really understood what it was like to spend every waking moment resisting the call of a thing that could never be vanquished, which is exactly why sometimes Jon felt his hackles raise when they were held to different standards – especially when Daisy herself hated it just as much as he did. 

None of that mattered, though. Everyone already thought him a monster, and he agreed with them. What was the point in pretending otherwise? He may as well be the monster, so no one else had to do it. _(Excuses, excuses, excuses.)_ And besides, he _liked_ it, didn’t he? He _hated_ that about himself, but that didn’t make it any less true. So, he would make himself useful. If he got too dangerous, he doubted any of the others would have any qualms about putting him down. It shouldn't have been a comforting thought, but it was. Somewhere along the line, wanting to live had started to feel _selfish_. When had that happened? 

But then… Martin.

_Talk to him,_ said the note. An outstretched hand in the form of three simple words. A belief that he wasn’t too far gone. No, not just a belief. An _expectation._ He was more than what he was becoming. Or, he _could_ be. 

Martin always saw him, didn’t he? Even when Jon didn’t deserve it –

He doesn’t notice Martin’s abrupt stop until he crashes headlong into him, bouncing off his sturdy frame and onto the dusty ground with a quiet _oof_.

“Martin?” Jon scrambles upright.

“Yeah, I’m – I’m okay, I’m –”

Martin is standing rigidly, staring off to the side, but Jon can still see the wild, frantic look in his eyes, the slightest sheen of tears there, the way he’s gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Martin?” Jon asks again, more intent this time. Pushing himself to his feet, he reaches out a hand – and then falters halfway, leaves it trembling in the air between them. Martin sways somewhat on his feet. _“Martin.”_

“I – what?” Martin turns unfocused eyes on him. "Jon?"

“Martin, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, it’s – I’m just – it’s –”

“You’re bleeding,” Jon murmurs, closing the gap between them and reaching up to brush his thumb over Martin’s lip. He half-expects Martin to pull away. When the rejection doesn’t come, Jon is nearly swept away by relief. 

“Oh.” Martin looks down and his eyes widen, as though he’s just now seeing Jon.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Jon says evenly, careful to keep the compulsion out of his voice. He moves his hand to cradle Martin’s face, and Martin leans into his touch on reflex.

“It’s… I keep thinking.”

“Yes?”

“I… it felt so much like curiosity, Jon.”

“Ah.” Jon thinks he senses where this is going.

“I – I didn’t realize until just now how it – I’m – I’m so _sorry._ ” Martin chokes on the last word and a tear slides down his cheek.

“Come here,” Jon says, lowering himself to the ground again and pulling Martin down after him. Martin sags against him, his breath coming in quiet hiccups, and Jon curls an arm around his shoulders. “Breathe. What are you sorry for?”

“I thought I understood. About the Web.” Martin’s breath hitches. “I used to think it was – maybe exaggerated, how you felt? Or, no, that’s not the right word – I mean –”

“More like a phobia than a rational fear.”

“It’s – not that it isn’t _rational,_ it’s just –”

“Martin, it’s fine,” Jon says, running his fingers through Martin’s hair. “I have a history of paranoia and phobias, and – and I know I obsess, I overthink things. If I was looking at me from the outside, I’d think I was overreacting, too. I probably _am_ sometimes. Which is what the Web wants.”

“I didn’t say you were _overreacting,_ I just thought – I thought maybe the actual threat was…” Martin bites his lip again. “That maybe it wasn’t as imminent as you were afraid it was. Or not as – as pervasive? I figured, if at least some of it was in your own head, I could actually…”

“Actually what?”

“That I could make it better,” Martin says meekly, a fresh wave of tears rolling down his cheeks. “I thought I could do something to protect _you_ for once.”

“You already do that."

"How do you mean?" Martin laughs bitterly. "The only reason I'm still alive is because of you."

"I think I could say the same," Jon says quietly.

"You'd survive just fine on your own."

"I don't want to just survive." It comes out harsher than he intended, and Jon forces gentleness back into his tone. "You are my reason, remember? And... and besides. You _do_ protect me." Martin rolls his eyes, and Jon rallies again. "Yes, _fine_ , there isn't much that could physically harm me here."

Martin nods sullenly, an unspoken _I told you so._

" _But_ , I - I'm prone to self-sabotage, if you haven't noticed." 

"Yeah." Martin sniffles, averting his eyes. 

"You make me want to be better. You... you believe that's possible for me, even when no one else does, even when I don't believe it myself. Even when I don't deserve it." Jon shakes his head, his quiet laugh full of wonder and disbelief. "You see me in a way that I quite honestly don't understand, but it... it makes me want to be that person for you."

"You don't really _need_ me, though." 

"I _do_ need you," Jon says fiercely. Then, softer: "And - and even if I didn't, I _want_ you with me." Jon coaxes Martin's chin up to look him in the eye. "I'm quite fond of you, you know." 

Martin chuckles half-heartedly and rubs at his eyes. 

"There's something else bothering you, I think," Jon says hesitantly. "I - I didn't Know anything, I promise, I just... it seems like there's more?" 

"It's fine." Martin clears his throat, and when he continues, it's with a tone that could almost be considered composed if it wasn't for the way he steadfastly avoids eye contact. "Just, you know. The Web."

"I'd like to listen, if you're willing to talk."

"You don't have to -"

"Let me take care of you?" 

They've talked about this before. Martin's always been a caretaker. He's compassionate, and Jon will always be in awe of how adept he is at showing he cares with the simplest of gestures. Martin finds it fulfilling, prides himself on putting comfort into the world when it seems like none can exist.

But he habitually prioritizes others at the cost of his own well-being, routinely blurs the line between compassion and destructive self-sacrifice. He never learned that cliché tenet of putting on his own oxygen mask before helping others with theirs. He doesn't know how to let himself be cared for, rarely even takes the time for _self-_ care, and usually doesn't believe he deserves it in the first place. He feels an acute need to justify his existence by being useful, and for most of his life, it was the only way he knew to measure his own worth. The same could be said for Jon, really; it just manifested somewhat differently in his case. 

But they've discussed it. They've been working on it. 

Martin opens his mouth, starts to mouth the reflexive phrase - _I'm fine_ \- but capitulates when Jon says again, resolute: "I'd like to take care of you. Please let me."

"Um. I... okay. Okay. I just - give me a minute."

"Take all the time you need," Jon says, and returns to playing with Martin's hair. They're exposed here, but Jon would have ample foreknowledge of any approaching danger. Besides, this is an in-between space, not claimed by any of the Entities. Jon Knows that few things will go out of their way to seek out a confrontation with the Archive, especially outside of their own turf. 

A few minutes pass before Martin begins to speak, starting slow before unraveling into a frantic confession. 

“I’ve – I’ve never felt in control of my life, not _really,_ but I’ve also never felt like I was being _puppeted._ It was just – circumstances outside of my control, or my own shortcomings, not – not some literal other mind pulling the strings.” One of Martin’s hands comes to rest on Jon’s knee, and he grips tightly, as if to remind himself of Jon's physical presence. “And – and if that’s a thing that actually _happens,_ if it might be happening to _me,_ how am I supposed to trust _anything_ I do or think or feel? How do I – how do I know I won’t lose you, or – or _betray_ you, or –”

“You don’t.” Jon gives him a very small smile, a cross between wry and rueful. He shifts his position until he can touch their foreheads together, moving one hand to cup the back of Martin's neck. “We can never know for sure whether we’re being controlled. We could sit here, I suppose – take no action at all, wrap ourselves in doubt and fear.” Jon nudges Martin's nose with his own, urging Martin to meet his eyes. “But then we’ll also have to wonder if _that_ was the Web’s plan all along.”

“Oh, _god,_ I’m dragging you back down the rabbit hole –”

“No, listen. It’s…” Jon gives a considering hum and leans away slightly. “Actually, there’s one part of Annabelle’s statement that sits with me in a good way.”

_“What?”_ Martin says incredulously.

“Just listen. ‘We all have forces that drive us, circumstances that direct us,’” Jon recites from memory, “‘and even if we choose to ignore these and act against all logic, just to prove that we _can_ – is that not simply allowing the existential terror of our own powerlessness to control us instead?’”

“And – and what about _that_ do you find comforting?”

“It’s… hmm." Jon takes a beat as he hunts for a way to best convey his meaning. "Do you remember the story I told you, about Mr. Spider?”

“Of course,” Martin says softly, rubbing his thumb back and forth on Jon’s knee in a soothing, repetitive motion. Jon grounds himself in the touch and takes a deep breath before he continues. 

“So - to this day, I still have the sense memory of being a passenger in my body. Like my veins were puppet strings, filled with - with hundreds of thousands of tiny scuttling legs. Like being pulled forward by a thousand minds and none of them my own.” Jon closes his eyes and swallows hard. This next part, he's never spoken aloud. “Worse, though, was the aftermath. I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility that maybe they had never left. That maybe they had just let the strings go slack for the time being. I was always waiting for a moment when the threads would be pulled taut, and I would realize that the Spider never actually let go. Sometimes I - I still feel the crawling, the tugging. It's my imagination, I know - just a tactile hallucination - but still, it can be... rather convincing at times.” 

“That’s… horrible," Martin says, and he means it, but there's a note of confusion there: he's not entirely sure where Jon is going with this. 

“The Web managed to cover a lot of bases when it marked me. Fear of spiders and cobwebs, yes, but deeper than that. That split second before opening a door where my heart stops because I can never really be _certain_ that I know what’s behind it.” Jon realizes suddenly that this is the first time he’s ever put words to that fear, let alone admitted it to another person. He shakes his head and forces himself to continue. “Being watched, being manipulated. Being controlled, or being unable to control myself, and being unable to tell the difference between the two. Infectious self-doubt, and the fear that I’ll never be free of it.”

“What does that have to do with –”

“‘Is that not simply allowing the existential terror of our own powerlessness to control us instead?’” Jon repeats, staring ahead into the barren wasteland. “It makes me think… maybe there’s some freedom to be found in giving up the illusion of control.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll always be afraid of the loss of control, whether it comes from the Web or from my own mind. And if I let that fear immobilize me, well… that’s also a loss of control. Same outcome.” He combs his fingers through the soft, curly hair at the base of Martin's skull. “What the Web feeds on is that fear of being manipulated. It doesn’t matter what you think is controlling you or how you react to it. It doesn’t matter whether you’re frozen in place like a fly caught in a web, or if you're unable to stop at all, stuck in a loop of - of obsession or addiction or panic. The Web can feast on all of it equally.”

“You do realize that none of this is especially comforting, right?” Martin says with a nervous, breathless laugh. 

“I’m getting there,” Jon promises. “The Web is an unknown variable. That's what makes it so terrifying. The only way I can think to fight back against that sort of power is to just… accept the idea that you’re not always in control, and that you’ll never know for sure the moments when you aren’t. To tolerate the ambiguity, and try to keep moving anyway. It dilutes the fear, somewhat. You aren’t as tasty a meal if you put a name to what scares you and shine a light on it.” Jon smirks. “If nothing else, it’s a ‘screw you’ to the Spider.”

Martin closes his eyes for a long few minutes, and Jon sits with the silence. Finally, Martin looks up, meets Jon's eyes again, and gives him a weak smile. 

"I know it doesn't solve everything," Jon says. "I still have my regular Web-related, uh... thought spirals, for lack of a better term. But I think it helps, to talk about it. The Web thrives best when its victims isolate themselves, lose themselves in hypotheticals and paranoia until they're paralyzed with doubt. It's harder to manipulate someone when they have someone to untangle them when they get stuck." 

"It did help," Martin says after a moment, and Jon is relieved to hear the sincerity underlying the words. "Thank you."

“Well, the only reason I managed to come to any of this in the first place is because you gave me a stick and a dirt canvas and let me rant myself hoarse about it.”

Martin laughs, still sounding just a little raw and tearful. “I guess the conspiracy corkboard idea worked?”

“Yes, Martin.” Jon rolls his eyes, but his demeanor is thoroughly fond. “Though I think blindsiding me with the concept of 'love as a choice we make' is what got me over the line in the end. _Very_ poetic.”

“And here I thought you didn’t like poetry.”

“ _Speaking_ of that…" Jon fixes Martin with a look of faux reproach. "Did you _really_ imply that you hate the theatre back there? After giving me so much grief about disliking poetry?” 

“I think I did more than imply it,” Martin says, and there’s a goading edge to his tone now. 

“That’s…” Jon shakes his head. “Okay. Explain, please.”

“I’ve just never been a fan.” Martin shrugs, but the nonchalance falls apart as Martin tries and fails not to grin at Jon's dismay. 

“Theatre is - it's such a broad umbrella, there’s no way you don’t care for _any_ of it –”

“ _Poetry_ is a broad umbrella, too.”

“Yes, _fine_ ,” Jon says grudgingly. “Shakespeare was a poet, surely you can appreciate some of his contributions to theatre.”

“You’ve spent your whole life hating poetry, Jon. You don’t get to imply that _I'm_ uncultured.”

“I don’t hate _all_ poetry. Just _most_ of it.”

“You still haven’t told me what changed your mind,” Martin says with a teasing smirk. “I wonder. Could it have been –”

_“Yes,_ Martin.” Jon heaves an exaggerated sigh, but doesn’t bother to hide the fondness in his tone. “It was you. _Obviously_.” 

“Just wanted to hear you say it,” Martin replies, absolutely preening at the admission. “I –”

Jon leans in and covers Martin’s lopsided smile with a kiss before he can get another blasphemous word in. The apocalypse can spare them a few more minutes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Mitski's "Francis Forever".
> 
> Any of the indented bits involving Francis or the Spider are from MAG 172.
> 
> The others are from, in order: MAG 148; MAG 152; MAG 146; MAG 147; MAG 141; MAG 155. 
> 
> And of course the quote from Annabelle's statement is from MAG 147 as well.
> 
> Cross-posted to Tumblr [here](https://bubonickitten.tumblr.com/post/621397721263292416/i-dont-think-i-could-stand-to-be-where-you-dont).
> 
> Comments greatly appreciated!


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